


where your book begins

by honey_wheeler



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t know,” he says after a long moment. “Like. He’s kind of scared and excited at the same time. His father’s drunk and everything, and he has to hold on real tight, but it’s good too. You know? Like how you can be worried and nervous about something but still want it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	where your book begins

**Author's Note:**

> Julie fills in for Landry as Tim’s tutor. Sexy hijinks ensue.
> 
>  _My Papa’s Waltz_ by Theodore Roethke can be found [here.](http://gawow.com/roethke/poems/43.html)

The sound of the doorbell carries over the TV. It makes her jump. She’s been half-dreading it and half-anticipating it since she got home from school. When she swings the door open, Tim Riggins is standing on her doorstep like he owns it. Her pulse picks up a little. She kind of hates herself for it. So much for not liking football players.

“Tim,” she says, hoping her voice sounds artfully disinterested instead of nervous. “Hi.” He looks at her speculatively and smiles.

“Hi. Julie, right?” She’s immediately irritated. He knows her name. He’s come over for dinner before. He sat right across from her.

“No, Carla,” she snaps, turning and walking back to the living room, leaving the door open. She can hear him close it behind her, can hear his big feet thudding softly across the carpet.

If she didn’t owe Landry big time, she’d never be doing this. But she does owe him – she can’t count the number of times he hauled her and Matt to the movies, or loaned them the car for make-out sessions in the back seat before her parents expected her home – so here she is, filling in as Riggins’ tutor while Landry’s busy with tasks undefined.

“What do you mean, you’ve got ‘stuff’?” she’d demanded when he’d cornered her by her locker and told her he needed a favor.

“Look, I just have things I gotta do. Commitments. I’m a very important man, Miss Taylor.” She’d snorted and he looked offended. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. It’s just this once, just one paper he needs help with. Then you’re off the hook.” He didn’t beg, but it came close, and she’d ended up giving in against her better judgment. Something about Riggins makes her nervous. Nervous in a way she likes a little too much, a way that makes her feel guilty and flushed and like she needs to go hide in a closet for a couple of hours.

And now they’re sitting in her house, around her kitchen table, where she eats dinner with her father and her mother, working on his poetry paper. He’s slouched low in his chair, his legs extending almost to the other side of the table. He’s too big for the chair. Every time he moves, his knee bumps hers and it makes her tense up.

“So,” she says, laying his textbook on the table in front of her and flipping idly through the pages. “What were you going to write about?” He shrugs in response.

“Dunno. Poetry, I figured.” His lips curve just a little and she can tell she’s supposed to be charmed by his lazy insolence. She purses her lips in return.

“Which poem?” she bites off.

“The one about the kid dancing with his dad,” he says.

“Tim,” she says, impatient. He raises his eyebrows questioningly. “I’m not even in your class. You’re gonna have to give me more than that.” He leans forward, rifles through the pages with his fingertips. If she leaned forward just a little, his arm would brush against the underside of her breast. The thought makes her suck in her breath and he looks at her curiously before tapping the page in front of her.

“Here,” he says. “ _My Papa’s Waltz._ By Theodore…Row…Roth…” he squints at the page, struggles to pronounce the unfamiliar name.

“Roethke,” she provides. He echoes her pronunciation, says _ret-key_ under his breath.

“How’d you know that?” he asks.

“I don’t know, maybe because I pay attention in class?” she suggests, her voice tart.

“You’re not even in my class,” he reminds her, smiling. She feels herself about to smile back, so she shoves the book in front of him instead.

“Anything specific you’re supposed to be writing about?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to write about tone. Like, whether the kid’s scared or excited or whatever.” He drums his fingers on the tabletop, raises one hand to scratch behind his ear, like he’s a big dog or something.

“Okay. And is the kid scared or excited or whatever?” He looks down at the book in front of him, studies the poem

“I don’t know,” he says after a long moment. “Like. He’s kind of scared and excited at the same time. His father’s drunk and everything, and he has to hold on real tight, but it’s good too. You know? Like how you can be worried and nervous about something but still want it?” He looks up then, catches her staring. She blushes, ducks her head.

“Then write that,” she says a little too loudly, shoving his notebook and a pen at him. He smiles knowingly. It’s enough to make her want to hide in the closet again. He bends his head to his paper and she blows her bangs off her forehead. After this, Landry’s going to owe _her_.

*****

Tim’s a restless worker. He shifts in his chair, taps his fingers, absently gnaws on the end of his pen. Frequently, he stretches both arms above his head so that his joints pop and his shirt rides up over his stomach. She tries not to notice or stare at the skin he’s exposing so carelessly. For once it doesn’t seem like something he does for the benefit of an audience. But he tilts his head back and closes his eyes and after the first couple of times, she stops trying not to look and just concentrates on not letting him catch her. If he knew she was looking, he’d take advantage of it, of her, and she’s not feeling particularly strong-willed at the moment, not with his legs crowding hers and his shirt pulled tight against his chest.

The dark hair trailing down his abdomen catches her eye and suddenly she wants to trace it with her fingertip, to press the heel of her palm against his stomach. Unbidden, her mind goes further and she imagines dipping her fingers down under the waistband of his jeans to wrap around him, measure him, find out what the fuss is about. He straightens and she snaps her eyes back to his face. Apparently not soon enough, though, since he smiles at her lazily, cocks one arrogant brow in frank invitation.

 _Matt, Matt,_ she chants to herself. _Think of Matt._

“You okay?” he asks with a smirk.

“Write,” she snaps, tapping an impatient finger on his notebook. Her mother comes into the room, then, and Tim’s focus shifts off Julie completely. His eyes follow her mother around the room as she collects magazines and envelopes, says _don’t let me bother you, y’all just keep on workin’_. She leans down for something on the floor and Tim stares at the neckline of her shirt and for a second Julie wishes her mother was frumpy and sexless like she’s supposed to be, like Lois' mom who wears housedresses and seasonal sweaters. Then she wonders if she’ll ever look that good in a low-cut shirt.

“Tim,” she prompts sharply, waiting until his eyes slowly shift to hers. “Write.” Her chin is set stubbornly, her arms are crossed over her chest. She’s not jealous, she tells herself. Just annoyed. Still, something sparks in his eyes and he narrows them at her, like he just learned a secret.

“Tim, you want to stay for dinner?” her mother calls from the kitchen. He looks at Julie, cocks his head like a dog. She makes a face like she doesn’t care if he stays or not.

“I’d love to, Mrs. Taylor.” He’s watching Julie’s face, so she keeps her expression neutral. He doesn’t need to know that she’s kind of glad he said yes even though she’d hoped he would say no.

*****

Dinner’s a bit different this time around. Her father arrives home with an armful of take-out containers, a chocolate milkshake in his hand especially for Julie. The last time Tim was here for dinner he’d barely acknowledged her presence. This time his eyes follow her every move. When she realizes he’s watching her suck on her straw, she blushes and he smirks. She has to slouch down pretty low to reach her foot far enough to kick him under the table, but it’s worth the effort. _Ow,_ he says, reaching under the table to rub his shin.

“Somethin’ wrong, son?” her father asks and it’s her turn to smirk.

“No, sir,” Tim answers, even as he’s hooking his ankles around hers under the table and tugging so hard she almost slides out of her seat. She can feel the hair on his legs, coarse against her skin. It makes her nervous, so she kicks free and maneuvers her legs out of reach, smiling sweetly at him when he scowls in mock-annoyance.

After they’ve eaten and the table is cleared, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She looks in the mirror at her reflection. Pink flags stand out on her cheeks; she looks like she just went running. _Scared and excited at the same time,_ she thinks. She knows it has nothing to do with her. Tim just likes a challenge. She’s not even his type. She leans forward, examines her face. It’s probably pretty. People have told her so, at least, and not just her parents. It’s hard to tell, though. You look at your face long enough and it stops making sense, like how saying a word too many times makes you forget if it’s really a word or something you just made up. She grabs a washcloth and runs it under the tap, pressing the cold fabric to her face.

Tim’s waiting for her in the hallway when she comes out. She almost yelps in surprise when she sees him, but she manages to keep quiet. He’s looking at one of the many framed pictures on the wall, one of her as a gap-toothed second grader with springy, lopsided pigtails. It feels weirdly vulnerable, having him look at Past Julie.

Finally he looks over at her. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough and gravelly. She wonders if he smokes.

“Hi,” is all she can muster, and it comes out squeaky and nervous. He’s not that big, really. He’s taller than Matt, maybe, a little more solid, but he shouldn’t be so big that he seems to fill the hallway, which is what he’s doing right now.

“You were a cute kid,” he offers.

“Too bad I grew up,” she jokes. He slants her a reproachful look.

“Still cute,” he tells her, and it almost feels like an admonishment. He’s closer to her somehow. How could he have gotten closer when he didn’t move? She can feel her pulse speeding up again.

“I bet you say that to all the coaches’ daughters,” she retorts.

“Just the cute ones,” he says seriously, as if this isn’t the most ridiculous conversation ever. Then his face breaks into a grin and he taps her nose with his fingertip. She has an almost overwhelming urge to catch his finger with her teeth, to taste his skin with her tongue. She wonders what he would do if she did.

Then it’s like he can read her mind because he’s stepping closer, crowding her against the door jamb. She can hear dishes clinking in the kitchen, the sound of the nightly news on the TV, her own heartbeat in her ears. His mouth hovers just over hers, so close she can feel the puff of his breath against her suddenly dry lips. Her tongue darts out reflexively to wet them and she gets a swipe of his lips too. She panics, jerks her head back, and promptly whacks her head against the door jamb, eyes watering when her teeth bite down on her tongue.

“Hey, hey,” he says and slides his hand between her head and the wall. “You okay?” She’d be embarrassed but he’s so close that he’s messing up her head. She just nods.

“Let’s see the tongue,” he orders softly and she doesn’t even think before she opens her mouth at the pressure of his thumb on her chin. It annoys her, how quick she is to do his bidding. She’s a feminist, damn it. This shouldn’t be happening.

“Yeah, you got it for sure,” he says, examining her tongue. “Does it hurt?” She tries to say _a little_ , but his thumb is still keeping her mouth open and it comes out sounding like _ah ih-ull_.

“You’re bleeding,” he notes, and before she even has time to register that, he dips his head and slides his tongue across hers. She can feel the rough surface, can taste the metallic tang of her own blood. And then he’s pulling away, walking down the hall and leaving her slumped against the wall. Her knees feel wobbly, like Jell-O. She can hear him talking to her father, saying goodnight to her mother and thanking her for dinner. It’s only when she hears the front door shut and his truck start up that she allows herself to sink down onto the carpet. Her mind buzzes blankly. She can’t decide if she should kill Landry or thank him.

Maybe both.


End file.
